


Kaminoikari

by A_bello



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Abigail still dies, Angst With A Side of Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Antony gets wrecked, Blood, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Canon Divergence, CheckMate - Freeform, Chiyoh is a godsend, Control Issues, Dark Will, Desperate, Detailed Imagery, Dolarhyde throws Will, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional intimidation, Hannibal has Feelings, Hannibal is frightened, Hannibal put your nose away, Hannibal rides Will, Hannigram - Freeform, Happy Ending, Hurt No Comfort, I mean it he's emotionally absent and evil, I poured them from Hell, I've tagged this fic half to death, Kill Them All Save Yourself, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Mizumono rewrite, Murder Kink, Ownership Kink, Post S2, Rough fucking, Sleepy Oral Sex, Strangulation, TWOTL parallel ending, They go to Canada, Top Will Graham, Will has fucking lost it, Will saves himself, car crash, come join me, enjoy, graphic murder, handjobs, long fic, s3 rewrite, slight MCD, the buckets of angst, touch starved, wrath of god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_bello/pseuds/A_bello
Summary: Kaminoikari; Wrath of God.**Will is brutal for as long as he can hold the charade, and Hannibal struggles to accept that he lacks the control he seems to need. They flee to Canada and struggle to adjust to their environment and developing attraction for one another after the events that had taken place.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 29





	1. Isoide Mizu

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot but I just couldn't stop writing lmao here we are, enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal becomes aware of something frightening about Will-and it's not the canon betrayal. It's murder.

"Could you be happy there?"

Hannibal reflected on the question for hardly a second, thinking of his memory palace and the man who'd managed to walk down nearly every corridor within it by now. Uncertain, but content, he licks his lips and responds,

"All the palace chambers are not lovely, light and bright. In the vaults of our hearts and brains, danger waits. There are holes in the floor of the mind."

Will nods, looking down at the papers Hannibal has his attention on, thinking of his answer a moment before gathering files into his own arms. Hannibal stares at the back of his neck a moment before he decides to lean towards Will, eyes shut, nostrils flaring as he attempts to indulge in the moment, documenting it in his mind through as many senses as he can, including smell. Hannibal opened his eyes, not leaning away from the other man as he moved towards the red glow of the fireplace, the heat managing to waft to and past the distance Hannibal stood at, burning the side of his face as if he'd been shot in the temple, blood dripping from his cheekbones. 

The scent that lingered in Will's dark, combed out curls was not only that of smoke and his own, but one that sent a deep chill through Hannibal's very bones. 

It smelled of wind chafed skin and scarves, Hannibal's own shampoos and conditioners, the underlying fowlness of panic. It filled his senses with a jarring level of familiarity, placing him in a clearing, dried grass high against his legs, a threatening ring of trees almost comforting in comparison to the nakedness of the clearing. He turned his head and the metallic tang of a deep, frightened spray of blood clung to his eyes, to the back of his throat. Abigail lay beside him, mutilated, faded-almost peaceful. 

Hannibal’s sight refocused, tears just barely pricking at the corners of his eyes as he curiously watched Will’s back, dark against the heat of the embers that smoldered around paper after paper.    
_ He knew. _

**

Will sat in his car a moment, jaw set, staring down the street at the modern front door of Hannibal Lecter. He’d deceived Hannibal lately, all within his own cognitive dissonance. It had been a painstakingly difficult process but he’d recently realized which side he was genuinely on-or, at least, what side he’d like to be on. 

He might not have entirely forgiven Hannibal for all the things he’d put him through, but certain emotions of his had recently begun to feel like they were overpowering the hate. Those emotions were, at the least, more appealing than the ones he held for Jack. 

He sighed, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth a moment, hands fidgeting with the steering wheel. Was this a good idea? Did he really want to become a fugitive?  With a definitive, deep inhale, he opened the door and climbed out of the car. 

_ For Hannibal? Anything. _

He walked up the street, the decision building with each pound his foot made against the pavement, in beat with his heartbeat.  He paused outside the front door, thinking for a moment; his car hadn’t been in the driveway, but it wasn’t unlike Hannibal to use his own garage. He bent to shift the potted plant and fish out the extra house key.  Once he’d straightened, the object easily slid into the lock, turned swiftly, and allowed him to have no struggle with the ancient doorknob. 

He put the key back and stepped inside.

“Hannibal? Did one of your patients cancel?”

An extremely familiar voice called out and Will froze, just seconds after shutting the front door. He was almost positive it was a hallucination; the whisper of a ghost, a scream across his mind.

He slowly turned, hearing a light footfall echo throughout the house. 

“Hannibal?”

_ No. _

Abigail stopped in her tracks, meeting Will’s cold, shocked stare. Her face shifted, slackened, like a deer in headlights. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“You aren’t supposed to be alive.”

He fired back, voice croaky, unsure. Her brows furrowed. He continued. 

“I can’t even tell if you’re here, or if I’ve finally lost it.”

“I’m here.”

He nodded, hands clenching and unclenching. 

“You aren’t supposed to be.”

She tilted her head in a manner that was painfully similar to the way Hannibal would look at him, curious and confused. 

He licked his lips, looking down at his hands, perfectly still. Will spoke, voice detached, cold, his stance stiff. Resigned, almost. 

She thought he’d be more..emotional? Unsure? As she searched his face to no end, her own expression morphed into something akin to fear.

“Hannibal has had you here? Alive? Rapunzel in her tower, the kingdom fearing the worst of her predicament?”

She took a step back as he stepped forwards; an entire foyer between them, but still dangerously close.

“It was supposed to be a surprise-”

He chuckled sourly.

“Well, consider me surprised.”

They stood there in silence, tension and uneasiness high strung in the air like a neon sign. 

Will took a deep breath, closing his eyes, before letting out a heavy sigh, refocusing on Abigail.

What needed to happen next was apparent, and the idea was shockingly similar to Hannibal’s own decision making process. He almost grimaced, and Abigail saw the mock regret in his eyes for a split second and became acutely aware of what would come next.  She turned on her heel, throwing her body in the direction she’d come from, but Will had already sprung into motion. She’d moved a few feet down the hall when he was more than halfway across the vestibule. 

She sprinted throughout the dimly lit corridor and straight up the stairs, as if she could climb higher than he. 

She jumped, skipping every other step, Will pounding after her. Near the top, he lunged after her, hands wrapping around the backs of her legs. They both tumbled forwards with a harsh  _ thud _ , and she squirmed against his strong grip. 

One, two, three misplaced, frantic kicks, until-  
_ crack. _

Will cried out, anger overlapping with the pain in his shout, and released her. Abigail scrambled to her feet and down the hall as Will, much more patiently than her, rose to his feet. 

Now in Hannibal's room, she turned and met his gaze once more. She cowered like a rabbit come face to face with her ultimate demise.

He took one lurching step forwards, hand resting over his lower rib cage where she’d kicked him. 

With a shout, the girl slammed double doors, locking them and hurrying through the large master bedroom and into the closet. S he dropped to her knees and shuffled through a neat pile of shoe boxes, scattering expensive loafers and dress shoes until she came to an especially heavy box. 

She threw the lid down and reached in, lithe fingers wrapping around the cold metal of a handgun. Loaded already, she reluctantly clicked the safety off, and nearly shot her foot through the firm material of the box when Will pushed roughly against the doors, startling her. 

She dropped the box thoughtlessly and scrambled to stand as another loud slam sounded throughout the room. Abigail stepped into the doorway of the closet, looking out into the still empty bedroom, jolting with the next slam.    
“Abigail”

Will called her name, almost mockingly, through the doors.    
“Let me in, Abigail”

A command, eerie and fluid, seeping under the crack of the doors-not at all with the sneering tone she might have imagined in previous nightmares. She swallowed, looking down at her shaking hands, holding the gun, looking almost foreign to her.    
Will wouldn’t hurt her, right? All he’s done, all he said he’d do. This is all wrong, surely.    
Doubt fled from her mind with the next slam of the doors, hinges jerking harder than before.    
She walked out, standing before the doors. With the next slam, she raised her arms, aiming the gun.    
Abigail waited, the seconds dragging on, until the next slam.

_ Bang _ .

Her arms trembled with the recoil, but the next two shots came easier, her index finger sturdy. 

_ Bang _ .

The sound rang in her ears as she stared at the two holes she’d blown in the large doors. She waited, not daring to blink, before hearing a floorboard creak. 

_ Bang. _

Her heart was in her throat when she called out, voice unsteady.    
“I’ve got a gun, Will, please don’t.”

She stopped, wondering to herself; don’t what? What was she so sure he would do?    
They both were aware, so why waste time wondering?

A grunt, and a flash across one hole, and the doors left out an alarming  _ snap _ as they were kicked open. Will, furious, in the center of the doorway.    
She shot at him, again, but missed; he'd dropped to the floor, rolling as her aim followed his movements all too slowly. She shot at where he lay on the pristine flooring, emptying her clip quickly, the roar of the weapon echoing throughout the grand quarters. 

Tears perched on her eyelashes and Abigail failed to keep up with reality once more. She kept clicking the trigger, the small empty sound of it hopelessly futile. Ice cold tears spilled over and down her cheeks, flushed with adrenaline. 

Will rose, wincing, head lowered before matching her fearful gaze. 

For a moment, it pained him, but it was only a small lapse of judgement that covered his body, like the wash of heated rain. Then, he came back to himself, grounded.

This would, or at least, should, be easy for him. How many times had he imagined this? How many times had her begs and screams and cries echoed vicariously through his haunted mind in that silent cell?  How often had he lost touch with reality, basking in the sun, wet hands warming after struggling to hold Abigails head under the water rushing in his deafening stream.  He’d already killed, lost, and grieved Abigail. Following through with it in reality would be easy, especially with the river of venom overflowing at the back of his mind with the whispers of blame and vengeance. 

_I'm_ _ gonna make it all better. _

He took one step forward, neck prickling as a shiver washed over his torso, that hushed voice like filth seeping into the cracks of a surface you just couldn’t scrub clean, beginning to close the few feet of distance between them.

As if thawed from a deep frozen slumber, she pitched her arm back, aiming to throw the gun at him.

Will jumped at her, grabbing her forearms. They toppled to the floor, the gun harshly clattering out of her hand and onto the floor as Abigail cried out upon impact.

He knocked it sideways, across the floor and away from them. She clawed at his arms, trying to hit him in his damaged rib, hollering unintelligible pleas and threats at the man straddling her.

He smacked her arms away, eventually giving up and moving towards his goal, hands fighting past her own and sliding onto her neck, wrapping around it almost tenderly. His fingers and thumbs rough on either side, calluses pressing into her heated scar, the same way he’d grasped her long ago in her kitchen. 

An ironic thing, really, he thought whilst she pounded at his chest, that the men who’d saved her life had come to be the inevitable cause of her death. It was almost poetic, the sickening way things had come full circle.

Will pushed down with a grimace, tightening his grip, palms delicately placed while they crushed her windpipe. Her face grew hot, veins in her eyes red and bulging. 

The choking sounds, broken at the back of her mouth, grew more urgent as the burn in her lungs ignited while she struggled to breathe.  One of her hands clawed at his own while the other fished around at her side. Seconds later, a sharp pain in his shoulder, which caused him to hiss and yank his arms back.  Abigail thrashed against him, her grip lost from the knife sticking out of his arm, just above his bicep. Will reached across himself, hand wrapping around the handle, a grimace sliding over his face like a sheet of rain on a car window. 

He jerked it out of his muscle, warm blood running past his elbow, clearly unhappy, gaze settling on the sobbing rabid girl before him. 

“Will-” she croaked, coughing-screaming-it out. 

“Please, Will, nonono-”

He shushed her ragged sobs, but of course she failed to quiet herself, Abigail has always been stubborn. 

“Will, stop, this isn’t you,” She coughed, sounding as though her lung was fighting to come up her throat, “you don’t have to do this.”

He raised his lip in a rather tired snarl before punching her, square in the jaw. Stunned silence ensued while a frown worked its way across his face. He fixed her with a glare, rage towering within him, his next words sweet with bare poison. 

“No, Abigail-This is Hannibal.”

More tears, hot down the sides of her face and into her ears and hair. His arms raised above his head, knuckles white around the bloodied weapon as it crashed down into the center of her chest. Her body jerked up, almost in slow motion, mouth agape in horror. 

Will wrenched it from the layers of skin, muscle, and bone, blood running fast, tendrils of a stream, down her shoulders and onto the ground behind her. Every cough or jerk just made more spill from the wound, made it bubble into the back of her mouth.    
His uninjured hand reached up to grasp her cheek, sliding to the back of her head, gently. 

She desperately pulled at his arm, his waist, choking and blubbering. 

He placed the knife, stained blade dark against the ugly scar, spread across her pale wind chafed skin. She shook her head, violently, trying to speak.   
“No-”

He pressed down, dragging the blade across her newly bruised throat, red liquid spraying up and onto his own collar, chest, arms. Their blood mingling; family. She made helpless, gurgling sounds, hands clasping uselessly running out of the fresh cut. 

Will watched, still, body cold and detached from the sound of his slow heartbeat booming in his ears. 

He watched her thrash about, pitiful noises dampening as her blood, black as a rich wine, flooded the floor, gracing the edge of the carpet beside them. He watched her lips go gray beneath the maroon ichor squirting out of her mouth, a peacefully violent contrast in colors. He watched the light fade from her pained and panicked eyes, felt her body go limp beneath him while she bled out. Will didn’t stand until minutes after he was sure she was dead.   
When he did rise, feet and pants soaked to the core, a broken sigh escaped him, from deep in his chest. 

He no longer felt responsible for the Chesapeake Ripper’s crimes; he became them. Every atom of every cell of evil, or misguided fantasy, was his own. He’d merged with the man he’d tried so long to separate himself from, and there, in that cold, empty mansion, his loss settled on his shoulders like the world's heaviest coat. 

Will tasted bile at the back of his throat. 

He reached up, dragging a ied hand through his hair, jaw set. His eyes rose to land on the grand bed, 

proud and neat in the center of this..oddly but richly decorated room.

Fit for a King.

Will swallowed slowly, hands loose at this side when he leaned down and dragged Abigail's body back, to the edge of the dark pool of her blood. He nudged his shoes off, tentatively lifting her into his arms, closing his eyes at how acutely aware he became of the deep, metallic smell that seemed to have filled the room.  Walking on the balls of his feet, he looked down at her limp face as he stepped onto the rug beneath the large bed.   
Gently, he leaned over the side of the bed, dropping her into the center for the sake of not smearing any blood on the duvet or spread of expensive pillows. He adjusted her legs and folded her hands across her chest before stepping away

Will stripped down to his underwear, gathered his clothes in a trash bag and collected towels to clean up the mess he’d made.

He scrubbed every stained surface in the room for what felt like days, even though the span of time lasted little more than a few hours. 

He sat back on his heels a moment, dropping another reddened rag into a trash bag at his side, pausing to look down at his hands. There was blood caked onto his skin, under his slightly overgrown nails, coating his body hair.

Ingrained into his being.

He swallowed hard, a shiver tickling down his spine. 

He grabbed one last scrap of cloth , wet it in the bucket of maroon tinted water, and wiped the last of the body fluid from his surroundings. 

He wiped off his hands and threw out the piece of fabric, then tied the bag and tossed it beside the doorway, where the trash bag of his clothes sat.

His mind was a fog of exhaustion, and it took him a moment to realize the new space he was standing in was the bathroom. The closet doors were left ajar, so Will naturally drifted into the small walk-in room. 

He browsed, slowly, not touching any of the fine clothing, searching for something as simple as a sweater and a pair of pants that he could leave in. After a vivid search within the expensive wardrobe, he came across some sleepwear, and when he raised a hand to grab a sweater, he paused, gaze scanning over the random dried blood he hadn’t been able to wash off his hand and arm. He nearly shook his head, as if it’d clear the dirtiness from reality. All he did, though, was blink and keep moving his arm until he had a pair of sweats in his hand.   
Will took a step back, turning his head to look around him once more, thoughts wandering down a narrow path between clothing hangers.

When they left tomorrow, he wondered what Hannibal would bring with him. Would he pack a suitcase? Would he pack two? Would he make sure he had enough cash and leave with just a small bag? He moved to a group of suitcases in one corner, where it seemed Hannibal had hung up all his tuxedos-for the opera, he presumed.  
Crouching, he ran his fingertips along the leather  of a small duffel bag, over to a large suitcase, pondering. Which of these would he bring with them? Would he come in the first place, or would the two meet their demise before they had the chance to leave? 

Knees cracking as he stood, Will exhaled. He already had enough anxieties about his general future, the least he could do for himself-for both him and Hannibal-was try not to worry about whether or not he’d have a future in the first place. 

Will turned and left the niche space, dropping the clothes onto the bathroom counter and pulling off his own slightly stained boxers-not too bad, and he could easily wear them home and wash them there. 

He started the shower, hesitating before stepping into the modern shower. 

It had gold linings and intricate stone tiles, and he could have laughed out loud.  He’d almost been expecting something more medieval. Cobblestones, iron, one of those gold bathtubs you might see in a magazine at an antique shop.  It was oddly humanizing to see that Hannibal had a..well, not normal, but not inhuman, bathroom.

Will shook the pointless train of thought from  his mind as the water beat down his recently cut curls, wetting them effectively. He didn’t wash himself like one might have expected.   
He simply scrubbed at his skin until it was no longer stained with the imprint of his regrettable deeds.

He finished up the moment he was clean again, cutting his nails to eliminate the dried blood and skin beneath them. He was dressed not even a full few minutes after he’d finished. 

After pulling on a thin pair of Hannibal’s socks, Will returned to the bed, covers undisturbed around Abigail’s body. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her. 

Greyed skin and light blue blouse paled beneath the horrific splashes of browning red wine. Her mouth slack, eyes half closed, tears dried in silver paths on her cheeks, having coaxed trails through the layers of blood on her face. The goriness of the sight of her was almost elegantly aesthetic. 

He closed his eyes, nearly trembling in the silence. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, smoothing out her matted hair as he leaned down.    
He kissed her forehead, lips dry against her chilled skin, and he didn’t move away when he whispered a small phrase against her.

“This is his design”

**


	2. Kanchō

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal sat up, straight, but Will did not tear away from him; in fact, he sought out and held his gaze, locking the two men in the moment. Still, hand not budging from where it rested atop Abigail’s own, he watched as Will leaned in, pulling him into a charged embrace.  
> “You should make dinner.”
> 
> **
> 
> Hannibal is confronted with one of his first internal conflicts between pride and despair. Things kick up with the FBI.

The car was silent save for random shuffles of clothes whenever Will decides to shift his position. Hannibal’s knuckles were white where he held the steering wheel, at 10 and 2; perfect, as always, even under the current circumstances.

Seeing him try to appear so unaffected was a surface scrape, and if Will wasn’t able to see past this facade, he’s sure he’d be itching to scream and claw at him, ask for a reaction, a tear, anything. He could see the obvious anxiety on his face, though, so all he needed to do was wait. 

“How did you feel?”  
Will licks his lips, brows furrowing as he turned his head to look at Hannibal. He was stoned faced, but his lips were stiff and his eyes darted across the road, looking for something more distracting to capture his attention, supposedly so he wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.

“Powerful.”

Hannibal nodded, noting the way he’d favored his mentality over his emotions.

“How did she feel?”

Will looked back out through the windshield, wiping his palms down his thighs, street lights flashing by in the pale evening lighting.

“She resisted, despaired, but I think she was thankful.”

He felt eyes on him, sudden, reflecting surprise and curiosity.

“What gave her away? What did she do to make you think she was happy?”

“It’s better to repent what you enjoyed than to repent not having enjoyed anything,” He licked his lips, continuing, “Abigail begged, but she did not expect or want me to listen to her prayers.”

“You see her pleas for mercy as prayers,”

“Mercy is a construct for victims, not victors.”

“Born from sorrow rather than violence?”

He nodded, turning to look at Hannibal, finding the man's eyes back on the road. Silence, discussion over; Hannibal usually determined when their dances were over, but tonight, Will had taken the lead, and sensed it wouldn’t change for quite a while.

The two drove in comfortable tranquility, stuck in their place in time like a pair of paperweights, packaged, waiting for something to press on. 

This is the in-between, the waiting that happens in the time just before and after one note and the next.

Small sticky notes and folded scraps, double-sided words passed through so many grasps that it leaves you misplaced, wandering through the space where you confuse which hands are whose and where they’re coming from. 

The sky flowing above them was smeared at the edges with the alarm of dusk, approaching ever so slowly.

It felt like a long drive, but realistically, about only 15 minutes had passed before they slowed, gravel of the street crunching softly beneath the expensive tires. 

Will stayed seated, not even moving a bone-dry hand to unbuckle his seat belt in the passenger. Hannibal looked at him a moment before turning off the car and stepping out, moving up to the porch. He waited.  
  
Slowly following suit, the man walked up the drive to stand facing him. He saw his hand rise and fall, rising once more to grip his bicep; he didn’t feel it, wouldn’t let himself be grounded.

But he also wasn’t rude, so he didn’t shake off the smaller man’s hand as he unlocked the door and let it swing open before stepping across the threshold. 

The soft snapping of their shoes on the wooden flooring, the harsher click-click of the door closing and locking behind them.

Hannibal turned his head as Will stood off to the side, just beside him; they locked eyes, both coldly and cautiously regarding one another, one clearly more afraid of the other in this moment. 

An injured snake in the pit, cowering before the formidable mongoose. 

They both shifted on their feet, the taller of them facing forwards, walking across the foyer and disappearing in the hallway. Will watched him retrace Abigail’s steps, hands relaxed in his pockets. 

Waiting a moment, he took a deep breath, body gradually moving into motion as he walked after him. Slow, sure, analyzing the rooms Hannibal reluctantly checked. 

The man bordered on frenzied curiosity and debilitating fear as he searched for the body of their..well, daughter. 

Will’s forehead creased slightly when he saw that he’d reached the stairs, paused, and began ascending them. He followed the investigative man. 

The stairs creaked under their feet, hollow with the memories of many days, today being the most pressing one. Hannibal felt no need to tear them open and divulge the past in search of meaning and closure, not as he thought he would. 

A deep burn at the back of his throat had settled by the time he reached the top, acutely aware of two things;

The bullet holes in his bedroom doors, and the fact that he felt safe with Will behind him, even though he was the reason they were here. 

Hannibals face darkened, and he paused, taking a deep breath. His hand fell from the railing, and he pushed onwards, slowly, as though if he pushed too hard he’d topple over.

The slow and deliberate footsteps of a killer trailed behind him, but he paid no mind. 

His breath stilled when he pushed the doors open, a grand gesture to welcome a grand devastation. He paused, eyes falling on the peaceful girl in the middle of the bed.

Rolling forwards on the balls of his heels, quiet, he came to the side of the bed, reaching out to Abigail after a moment. Raising a hand, unsure, before letting it descend upon her hand, wrapping his own around it as he sat beside her on the bed.

Tears pricked his eyes, less out of grief and more out of thankfulness; he had her while he could, and it was longer than anyone else that was still alive. 

He closed his eyes as the comforter rustled on the other side of the girl's cold body, her fathers on either side of her; a devil and an angel on her shoulders.

Will was borderline stoic for the gravity of the situation. Hannibal gave in, tears spilling down his cheeks, slow and few in number but important. 

Will watched, trying to gauge the reaction, but Hannibal refused him the satisfaction, turning his head away in the silence of the room.

Seconds folded into minutes and finally he turned back towards his adoptive daughter, leaning down to kiss her forehead. 

Even in such violent death, she remained beautifully unbothered.

He stayed there a moment, inhaling the filter of death and fear that had settled over her, masked by Will’s own contempt for him. It was the smell that resulted in his confusion when he felt a rough hand slide onto his shoulder. 

Hannibal sat up, straight, but Will did not tear away from him; in fact, he sought out and held his gaze, locking the two men in the moment.

Still, hand not budging from where it rested atop Abigail’s own, he watched as Will leaned in, pulling him into a charged embrace.

Only when Will shifted his head to whisper something unintelligible into Hannibal's ear did he move both hands up to come around his back, fingers tight in the fine fabric of his dress shirt. They stayed that way for a good while, neither sure who it was meant to comfort but welcoming the warmth regardless.

Will slid out of his grasp, staying on the bed but sitting just out of Hannibal’s reach. 

“You should make dinner.”

_You cook the food, I dispose of the waste._

He swallowed, standing, patting Will’s leg as he left the room. 

  
**  
  
  
Will’s eyes raked over the elaborate display of food, taking in the view. The dark hues of half opened pomegranates and entire apples, sweet and tangy flavors and sights basking beneath the ribs in the center of the main plate. 

They slowly drew closer together, both sides seeking the other out until finally clasping, like hands in a prayer. His gaze continued on past that, pausing on his own full plate before finally flicking over to Hannibal’s table setting. 

Looking at the way his fingers tapped the base of the step of his glass of wine rhythmically, the firm set of his hands; an unset starting time, like the beginning of the countdown to a bomb drop. The alert lights bright red in Will’s eyes when the man at the head of the table cleared his throat.

“Do you know what an imago is, Will?”

He paused, taking a small breath before answering.

“It’s a flying insect.”

Hannibal smacked his lips softly. 

“It’s the last stage of a transformation.”

Will’s head subconsciously perked up, brows knit together thoughtfully. 

“When you become who you will be?”

His eyes darted back to Hannibal’s hands, both dangerously still. He looked away again; not out of submission, but dismissal. 

“It’s also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.” 

They both paused, waiting, as if the third being at the table might speak. It did not. Instead, it sat there silently in the foreground of Will’s mind, smelling of the truth. 

“An ideal.”

He summarized, listening to Hannibal’s questioning inhale.

“The concept of an ideal..” He pursed his lips, “I have a concept of you, just as you have a concept of me.”

“Neither of us ideal.”

The words stung Hannibal more than Will, even though they both felt uneasy with the statement. An admission of discontent with the circumstance of their identities, of their being in one another's presence; something neither wanted to change, but neither seemed to enjoy to the fullest capacity. 

Hannibal's gaze felt cold to himself when it turned on Will. Disappointingly, his stare was not returned. He shifted in the larger seat, fingers tapping the table beside his glass a few times. Is that why he’d killed Abigail? To try to change something, or craft an ideal? Or was it to take away the possibility of said ideal? 

The fireplace crackled distantly and he let his focus drop from his stony face. Another second and he clicked his tongue, continuing, abandoning his worries momentarily.

“Both of us are too curious about too many things for any ideals.”

Another wave of quiet washed over the two, Will absent in his seat, Hannibal pondering, looking at the lamb’s rib cage that was settled in the middle of the table. Slight realization dawned on him at his own words; the pair would never find content. They were one another’s bandages on the battlefield, and only served a purpose in the acts and in the momentary aftermath.

There was no point to nursing healed wounds. He continued.

“Is it ideal that Jack die?”

Will finally looked up at him, tilting his head softly. Normally, Hannibal might’ve smiled at the way he’d mimicked his mannerisms, or the way he’d picked up on the name he’d whispered between the lines of their banter, but this was a unique circumstance. The only thing he felt was the mix of wine and bile in his stomach, and the churning curiousness at the back of his throat, metallic with the smell of blood.

“It’s necessary,” Will almost purred, voice low as he continued, “What happens to Jack has been preordained.” He looked away again, elegantly rising his glass of wine to his lips, taking a slow sip under Hannibal’s concern. The man was barely breathing, watching this reincarnation of the Will he’d come to know.

“We could disappear now. Tonight,” Will looked at him once more, jaw clenching, “Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and never see Jack or her again. Almost polite.”

Soft lips pursed at the suggestion, playing with the idea and what its delivery had conveyed. Hannibal had given him a message, wrapped up in a choice like a pretty garment carefully placed within a cloth pouch. 

“Then this would be our last supper.”

He chuckled under his breath.

“Of this life. I served lamb.”

“Sacrificial.”

Hannibal’s upper lip twitched, almost in a snarl. It surprised him, that and the shift in his tone.

“I don’t need a sacrifice,” he paused, “Do you?”

“I need him to know,” Will fluidly shifted the subject away from his own sacrifice, “If I confess to Jack Crawford right now…”

Hannibal’s brows furrowed. Jack Crawford wasn’t a man of forgiveness, or consideration. He handled things and sat on them later and considered it dealt with. They both knew the conversation being held, and who it kept addressing. 

“I would forgive you. If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, would you accept his forgiveness?”

His tone was tired, and the next words burned with the intensity of focused sun rays; of the feeling of being seen.

“Jack isn’t offering forgiveness. He wants...justice. He wants to s-s-” Will stuttered to silence, almost at a loss, “see who you are,” his voice solidified, “See what I’ve become. He wants the truth.” 

Their silent war of perception raged on in the absence of eating, their food cold to the touch. Hannibal’s head tilted, in mimic of the earlier replication-a loop. He wasn’t sure what he wanted; be it justice or acceptance. 

He did know one person he wanted, but it felt like he was slipping between his fingers like a burst water balloon. He opened his mouth to speak, taking a breath in thought for a long while, before giving a response.

“To the truth, then. And all its consequences.”

He took a sip of his wine, setting the glass down silently, a heartbroken clink against the dark wood of his table. Will began to eat in silence, not returning his toast.

If this were a different night, he’d have waited for Will to leave before mumbling to himself out of exasperation about all the rude things he’d done, about how they were fixable, about anything-it varied, really. Hannibal was always so tight lipped around everyone, even himself, that the way he thought of and spoke of Will still baffled him. 

They ate, the soft ringing of silverware cutting through the tender meat and against the fine china settling heavily over the tension.

Will finished first, but neither of them spoke until their wine glasses were empty and they had little to no excuses of avoidance left. 

“Do you think Abigail is a consequence?”

Hannibal blinked, gaze hard when it moved to Will. 

“Was she?”

“Are you asking for a fact or an opinion?”

“What are you ready to give?”

“A fact. It’s difficult to disprove or dwell on facts, they are often the causes of any result.”

“And yet, sometimes facts are no more than pitiful consequences, because guilt does not reside in our acts but in the intentions that give rise to our act. Everything turns on our intentions.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, and he matched the blonde man’s stare. 

“We are made entirely of flaws, stitched together with the illusion of our good intentions.”

“You struggle to differentiate between the good and the bad intentions?”

They had come close to another stalemate, edge creeping into the deep edges of their conversation. 

“I fail to see anything but an intention.”

“Good, bad, all alike on the scales of judgement.”

“God’s judgement is almost more biased than those he judges.”

“Is it God you’re worried about when you act upon your urges, or is it God for whom you worry?”

Soundless stiffening. Will’s hands clenched and he licked his lips, body swaying slightly in his seat. 

“I don’t concern myself with God.”

“Is it because you feel you are one?”

“I know I’m not a god, Hannib-”

“I’m not asking if you think you are a god, Will, we all could deny or accept that question and neither would be the truth. I wonder, do you believe you have the levels of complexity that a god would possess?”

An audible swallow, and Will stood, slowly, the chair squeaking. 

“Would you like me to be compared to God? In my own eyes?”

Hannibal shrugged half heartedly, lips pursing with opportuneness. The expression made Will want to leap over the edge of the table and knock him to the ground with a clash, but all he did was rub his thumbs over the ridges along his fingers, hands balled tightly. 

“I should go.”

They both were standing now. The raven haired man moved almost painfully slow, hands sliding into the pockets of his dress pants.

His body lithe beneath the fine fabrics, newly used muscles rippling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt as he pulled on his fitted wool coat.

Hannibal thought the anatomy was pleased, vibrating beneath Will’s skin with the new words they whispered amongst themselves.

_A god. God. He has seen us as gods._

Hannibal gave a sickened smile, more emotionally exhausted than he’d been in many years, but still feeling a sense of pride at the sight of Will’s ego purring beneath his strokes, like a lion manipulating its way into a pride. 

They stood before one another, unsure on how to part now, after this past evening.

They were conjoined, blended at the edges they overlapped on. He thought for a moment Hannibal might hug him when the man stepped towards him, but it was just to unlock the door for the shorter man, who surely seemed nothing short of frozen in his stance. 

Time seemed to resume when the door cracked open and Hannibal stepped back; they’d separate once more, and would be painfully reminded of the existence of people in their lives. A pitiful note to end their night on. 

Will left, wordlessly, not turning his head or body back the slightest degree until he was in his car and could lean back and look up at the empty porch. His neck grew hot when the outside lights flick off. Adrenaline rumbled inside him, a storm brewing.

He turned the old car on, engine matching the beat of his heart as he pulled out of the parallel park and out of the neighborhood.

_Bah-dum. Bah-dum. Bah-dum bah-dum bum dum bah-dum._

His fingers tapped erratically against the steerwheel, pondering turning on the radio and almost deciding to before realizing he probably couldn’t tear his hands away from the wheel no matter how hard he tried.

Not right now, locked into place, body burning against the cheap torn leather of his car.

He drifted in and out of reality as the city faded around him, until he was halfway through the countryside and he’d been sitting in silence for nearly 40 minutes. 

It was then that Will’s breaths started to come fast, and he felt his heart throbbing beneath the skin of his hands, whose clutch on the steering wheel had tightened with such force he feared he might rip it off. 

“Where am I?” He asked himself, voice forceful. He couldn’t tell if he were still moving or if he simply sat still in the middle of the road. 

His arms jerked and Will went blind to his surroundings momentarily, at first for a real reason, but secondly because he’d closed his eyes in retaliation.

If his senses were to be stolen from him, it’d be him who stole them. 

“Where am I?” He repeated, voice almost breaking beneath the strain in it. 

_You’re in a car. You’re in the weeds again, Will, you’re stalking again. You’re on a bumpy road and there are lions and gazelles surrounding you, hunting one another for sport. What are you?_

He finally tore his hands free from their place in front of him. Rubbing frantically at his eyelids, squeezed shut, he whimpered, lungs staggering for normalcy. He opened his eyes, fingertips resting on his cheeks. 

Looking around, almost frantic, trying to get a sense of reality in his core once more. 

He’d pulled over to the side of the freeway, long grass and woodland on one side, bare gravel and empty road space on the other. He was in a car. He was on a bumpy road, and he was distracted, again. 

Spots of orange and blue swam in his line of sight as he shifted gears, the car rolling back onto the black pavement, stones and dirt audibly shifting beneath him as he quickly accelerated.

He needed to get home, for more reasons than one. 

**

Will rubbed a hand over his eyes when his phone rang. He looked down at the car keys he’d just set on the table; his house was empty and he was as packed as he could be, his bags hidden in a compartment in his car.

The small clatter of the nails of the last two dogs he’d decided to leave for the FBI sounded out down the hall while they went in search of the other canines they’d come to be so accustomed to.

It was familiar to him, the feeling of being dragged tooth and nail from familiarity. He would fight harder to keep it this time.

He finally answered, walking away from where he'd stood, sliding his free hand into his pocket.

“Hello?”

“ _It’s Alana. Is Jack with you?_ ”

He wanted to snort in response, tired, but it was a valid question and it was beginning to attract his concern.

“No, why,”

“ _They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest, Will. For acting as an accessory to entrapment_ ..” Will closed his eyes, licking his lips in exhaustion. They’d have to leave sooner than he’d planned. He listened closely when Alana spoke up again, “ _..and for the murder of Randall Tier_.”

The two pups barked, sniffing at the front door. 

“ _They’re going to arrest Jack as well_.”

His brows furrowed and his hand slid out of his pants, clenched in realization. Cars pulled down the street far ahead, dim in the reflection of his windows.

“ _Will_?”

Her voice was urgent and his face fell stiffly. He spoke sternly as he moved to hang up the phone.

“Goodbye, Alana.”

A promise.

Headlights flashed as the cars pulled into the driveway and Will’s urgency spiked. He pulled a gun from a chest beside the door and grabbed his jacket on the too and out of the back of the house, hurriedly fading into the woods as the sound of car doors opening and closing rang out.   
  
He called for a taxi, trying to sound calmer than ever before.

**

Hannibal stood in the kitchen, exhaustion battling with excitement along his shoulders as he sliced bell peppers, boringly sweet smelling against the damp wood of the cutting board. His ringer started to play, high pitched, and caused his heart beat to jump. He quickly walked over to the landline and picked up, gathering the pieces of vegetable. 

“Hello?”

Silence, reassurance.  
  


“ _They know_.”


	3. Taki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will snarled, and just as she opened her mouth to plead again, he pulled the trigger; this time, the gun was loaded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the past ones, but I promise I'll try to pick up the lengths again soon. Sorry for the wait!

Hannibal glanced up from where he gripped a knife, concluding the activity of cutting vegetables and moving onto the meat. He would have sighed at the prospect of not being able to finish or even eat his dinner, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

Jack emerged from the shadows of the hall and was greeted with a sickening grin. 

“Hello, Jack. You’re early.”

The guest was stiff, looking at Hannibal warily, before his gaze fell to where Hannibal was cutting the meat. 

Hannibal can barely focus on the sounds around him. All he can hear is his breaths, steady and rhythmic in comparison to the like _shik, shik_ of the knife sliding into the raw muscle, an organic thumping against the organic hum of his circulatory system.

Hannibal reaches out, turning the block of knives in front of him so the handles are now facing Jack, should he want one. Jack looks between the block and Hannibal’s face a few times, watching the cold light reflecting from the knife in use shatter across his face.

“Would you care to sous-chef?”

Jack glances at the block once more.

“I want to thank you for your friendship, Hannibal.”

“The most-beautiful quality of a true friend is to understand and be understood with absolute clarity.”

“Then this is the truest moment of our friendship.”

Jack’s hand drifts toward his coat, brushing his thumb across the fasten of his sidearm holster.

Hannibal springs into action at the same time his opponent does, and time seems to turn to liquid molasses. He pitches his arm back before throwing the knife at Jack, while the man in question raised his gun quickly. 

Time paused at the light _schluck_ that rang out as Hannibal’s knife pushed through Jack’s hand, near the wrist, the clock resuming rather quickly at the loud crash of his gun clattering across the floor. 

Hannibal vaults over the kitchen counter as Jack pulls the knife out of his wrist, swinging it immediately; this wouldn’t be an easy fight. 

The blade whisks through the air, narrowly missing the offending man as he dove back, swerving away from his wide and pointed jabs. 

He yanks another knife from the cutting board and swings it in a deadly arc. The other jackknifes his toso to avoid the blade, slashing back at Hannibal with quick swipes. 

Hannibal deflects Jack’s knife with his own and they dodge, parry and block each other’s blades. Jack thrusts and slices Hannibal’s waist, who twists around the knife, knocking it from Jack’s grip. Hannibal lunges his knife at Jack’s belly, meaning to gut him. Jack blocks the knife with a cutting board, then wrenches it away for a moment to rear back and smash the wooden board into the side of Hannibal’s head, knocking him off balance, but not quite down.

He grabs Hannibal and bodily swings him crashing into the cupboards. Hannibal throws his weight back at Jack, driving him across the kitchen, but not far. Jack is trained, solid. 

He maneuvers his arms around Hannibal's throat and twists into a chokehold. The man writhes and kicks, trying to throw Jack off balance, but to no avail. 

His mind is racing at the same speed as the adrenaline, thrumming beneath his skin at volumes he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He wouldn’t win this with force, not the way he’d come to be used too; Jack was too strong to be outmatched physically by Hannibal.

His eyelids flutter and pinch as he tries to focus and remain conscious. His body goes limp and he slumps in Jack’s arms..Just enough for his shoulder and waist to drop to the ground and allow his hand to slide across a shard of glass on the floor. He picks it up gingerly whilst Jack begins to regain his own breaths, and plunges the glass upwards into the side of Jack’s neck. He recoils and stumbles back, clutching his neck. Hannibal acts quickly, picking up two of the butcher knives and turning on Jack, not bothering to cough his lungs back to life. 

Still clutching at the side of his throat, Jack stumbles back into the panty.

He falls inside, kicking the door closed at the sight of a quickly advancing Hannibal.

 _Slam. Slam._ **_Slam._ **

Hannibal grunts, guttural, as he throws his shoulder into the pantry door. Jack’s foot was the only thing holding it shut, it’d give eventually, he figured. 

He steps back, turning to throw his shoulder into the braced door yet again.

He hears the distant sound of rustling, Jack most likely digging in his coat for something-a phone or weapon, perhaps. 

He jumped at the door, over and over and over again. 

**_Slam. Slam._ ** **_Slam_ ** **_._ **

Hannibal reared back once more, panting, gaze steady. He was focused on getting into the pantry; things would never be alright if Jack called 911 or even made it out alive. 

He held the terrible focus of a predator in his squinted, angry eyes, and in the set of his shoulders beneath his bloodied dress shirt.

Hannibal snarled, throwing his body against the pantry door once more.

**

Will all but jumped out of the cab, tossing a 20 onto the middle console, just barely managing to close the door as he lunged up the walkway. 

He would have debated if he should stay, or go, or honestly what the hell he was doing there in the first place, had the front door not been left ajar. 

The rain is loud, drowning out all else in the swarming dark of the night. Deafening, almost, splashing up against his bare ankles as he bounded up the small steps and over the threshold with a deep breath.

Mind spread wide enough that he forgot to close the front door, Will walked quickly through the foyer, hands braced on the gun at his waistband. 

He stood in the shadows of the foyer, slowly approaching the entryway that led to the kitchen; he stopped short, just out of sight, when he glimpsed the events taking place in the fluorescent lighting of the modern room.

Will took a step back when he watched Jack, blood squirting from his neck, stumble back into the pantry. 

His hands were frozen, wet from the rain around the cold metal of his handgun. 

He watched Hanniba stumble to his feet, bloodied fingers reaching out to grasp two shining objects off the floor. 

Another step back when the door slammed shut just as Hannibal soared through the air, knives in hand, jostling against the door. 

He watched this happen, unafraid but not willing to intrude, before a familiar voice wafted distantly through the foyer, a long forgotten echo bouncing off canyon walls. 

“I’d like to report gunshots.”

Will turned suddenly, eyes searching the warm darkness, before falling back into a corner of the room, near the staircase, as Alana rushed in towards the kitchen, clutching her gun.

A rattle, a crashing _wham wham_ , and fear was stitching it’s way across her expression as she stepped into the cool undertones radiating from the kitchen’s doorway.

He wanted to smack her, but he supposed this would be the moment his promise was to be fulfilled. 

A crack sounded through the house, the light sound of the door splintering further.

He lifted his gun, dim lighting just barely reflecting off the silver as Alana stopped in the doorway; he would’ve clicked off the safety had she not begun to speak.

“Hannibal…”

It was quiet, and Will could barely even make out the low sound, but he did see her lips move. 

  
“Hannibal.”

The harsh sounds of Hannibal charging the door and slamming against it stalled as she called attention to herself, a jester in the throne room. 

“Hello, Alana.”

She looked around, left and right, around the bloody room, mounting horror peaking in her eyes. Hannibal let out a deep sigh as Will took another step closer, still hidden from the both of them. He sounded disappointed to see her there.

“What a terrible and wonderful thing it is to see you.”

“Where’s Jack?”

A pause, the moment of truth; the three of them had to confront what was happening, despite the many conflicting emotions about it that were churning in the atmosphere.

“In the pantry,” He whispered, harshly ragged.

Alana seemed to realize that something far more sinister than a mediocre fight was at hand. She swallowed, hard.   
“Is this how you killed Abigail, too? Cornered her, let her meet some _pitiful_ , violent end?”

Her voice shook, and while Hannibal didn’t respond, Will could still hear his breath hitch, even from this distance. Will imagined a sick, tired smile working its way across his face.   
“ _I_ wasn’t the one who killed her.”

Alana took one step back, completely unprepared for the claim. Hannibal continued speaking. 

“I was hoping you and I wouldn’t have to say good-bye. I imagined a farewell less sorrowful, less present, an echo. Nothing said nor seen. You may’ve thought that rude.”

The ruffle of clothes sounded out and Will watched, brows knit carefully, as her finger tensed on the trigger. 

“Stop.”

Her voice was shaking, but there was yet to be another footstep.

“I was so blind.”

“In your defense, I worked very hard to blind you. You can stay blind. You can hide from this. Walk away. I’ll make no plans to call on you. But if you stay, you will die,” He took a deep breath, lungs creaking almost audibly, and Will took another hushed step towards Alana, gun lowered now, “Be blind, Alana. Don’t be brave.”

She clicked the safety off and Will lunged, the shadows washing off of him like dirt from a fresh body in the river, knocking her aim sideways as she pulled the trigger; the gun clicked mildly, and clicked again as it was turned on the man tackling her. 

Will could have laughed if he’d simply remained a spectator; Alana, as tiring as always, didn’t even check to see if her gun was loaded. 

Regardless, here he was, crouching atop the panicking woman as Hannibal watched on, stunned to silence. 

Realization finally dawned in her eyes, and she would beg for mercy if Will didn’t move-so he did. He knocked the gun out of her hands, pistol-whipping her across the face in the process.

Alana choked out a pitiful, broken whimper, “Will-”

She cut herself off, kicking and thrashing beneath him, feet sliding against the floors, fighting to find traction through the wetness that clung to her surroundings. 

“Will, stop, you don’t want to do th-”

But he didn’t let her finish her sentence. Will hit her again with the gun, clicking his own safety off and shoving the cold metal against her brow, ruthlessness seeping from the base of his expression. 

Tears began to well up faster than he’d thought possible, but soon enough, they were spilling out of the corners of her eyes, down the sides of her face and into her hair. 

“Will, please.”

He stared down at her, purposely ignoring the soft click of dress shoes approaching. A chill spread up his arms from where his fingertip prickled with hatred against the trigger. 

Rage filled him, insidious, seeping into his every pore and wound, damp and calloused fingers pulling at the sides of his mouth and the ridges of his clothing.   
Will snarled, and just as she opened her mouth to plead again, he pulled his finger tight against the cold metal; this time, the gun was loaded. 

It was over faster than he’d been prepared for, the thunderous _bang_ still ringing deep in his ears as his fingers held the gun tighter, as if releasing the trigger would reverse the initial shot and it’d all be for nothing. Thankfully, in her coldness, she no longer forced thoughts of Abigail into his mind. Will stood after a moment, backing up, knees wet with rain and blood. 

He dropped the gun after a solid few seconds of standing above Alana, looking down at her, porcelain skin bloodied across her half recognizable face. She looked frozen, mutilated with the hole he’d torn into her face just moments before. 

His chest shook, breaths staggering while he stepped back. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Hannibal placed a grounding hand on his shoulder. 

Another chill spread through his muscles at the touch, blood drying on his fingers. 

Will turned and shrugged his arm off, pausing just a moment to meet his eyes and glimpse something akin to fear written across the man's face. He scoffed, quietly, looking towards the kitchen when the pantry door creaked open an inch. 

Hannibal had barely twitched in Jack’s direction before Will reached out, hand brushing the man’s stomach haltingly. 

“Don’t. Leave him.”

They held each other’s gaze again, and Will was reminded of his thought from the previous day when he was presented with Abigail-the one in which he felt like a predator, finally closing his claws around a juicy rabbit-except this time he was filled with towering rage and _determination_ , and something else entirely alien to the situation.   
This wasn’t a prey-predator situation, this was a fisher turned hunter staring down his most dangerous opponent. 

“Pack your bags, Hannibal. The butcher has been quieted. We leave in 15.”


End file.
